The act of shopping is much like that of writing - both involve a lot of walking around, waiting for inspiration. The difference between the two, of course, is that you can actually do some writing downtown, where parking and public transportation challenges make shopping impractical. Thus, I find myself shopping for Christmas gifts at my favorite stores in residential neighborhoods.
This seems increasingly futile to me as I stand in a small, Spanish-language grocery store. I love this store. I don't actually speak Spanish, so everything seems strange and exotic to me. The store is full of cool things I've always wanted to buy but have never had the nerve to. I leave after just a few minutes; if I've never gotten up enough nerve to ask the clerk for a bottle of bay rum from behind the counter, I know I won't have the sand to ask him to suggest something nice for my mother-in-law.
I have equally poor results at the next two ethnic grocery stores I visit. I see a few interesting items at the Vietnamese store, for instance, but Christmas probably isn't the time to introduce my family to mutant gelatinous coconut cubes (an actual item).
The clerk at the Korean store sized me up pretty effectively. "Maybe you should buy a pencil," she suggested, "they're cheap."
When I was twelve, one of my buddies came up with a great solution to the classic male dilemma of Christmas shopping. He asked himself what he, himself would like for Christmas, then bought his dad a hockey stick. His father, who wasn't really a sports kind of guy, didn't actually know what a hockey stick was used for, so after a discrete interval, he threw it away. My friend then fished it out of the trash and had a new goalie stick to use all winter. The fact that he wasn't good enough to actually make goalie on the PeeWee team doesn't detract from the beauty of his plan.
I realize that much like my buddy, I've been looking at Christmas presents I would like, rather than items suited to my friends and family. I reluctantly conclude that I'll have to bite the bullet and go to the mall.
The problem with shopping at the mall is that you always end up with lots of cute or funny gifts for casual acquaintances and spend lots of money, but don't end up with much for the people you actually care about. This is the concept that Spencer Gifts is predicated on. Thus, the annoying guy in the next cubical at work with the Britney Spears fixation gets taken care of, but your diabetic Aunt Agatha will end up with a last-minute Whitman Sampler again.
I briefly consider having my portrait taken for my father.
A portrait? - oh yeah, that's exactly what my dad needs - as if he doesn't have enough problems in his life; he'd have this face leering up at him from his desk. I suffer from extreme photo-anxiety which gives me a chronic inability to pose properly. Instead of a smile, I usually give a tortured grimace that frightens dogs and young children.
On the other hand, I have no better ideas, so I tentatively stick my head into the mall's photo studio.
Absolute pandemonium is in full swing inside, as fussy, obsessed parents try to pose small, overly-precious children for holiday portraits. One small baby is (I kid you not) stuffed into a large stocking. I slink away before I become eligible for testimony at some sort of human rights tribunal. My life is complicated enough without that.
The Britney Spears calendar starts to look good. It would definitely give Dad's desk a boost.
